Levels: The Host (17 page)

The gathering crowd was large now and people were whispering questions about what might have happened. “California?” “Is it California?” “Is
it starting?”

Watly slowly stood up. A nearby tenter crawled out of her tent to join the excitement. Watly slid in beside her and they walked together toward the circle of people. He knew running would do no good now. He’d stick out like a blue bean and it would just be a matter of time before they caught up to him. He had no running left in him, anyway. He had just killed someone, really.

As Watly surreptitiously joined the crowd, the cops began to try to break
it up.

“Okay, folks,” one female officer said. “Move along, now. Back to bed. Nothing happened here.” She was standing high on a cruiser’s roof, motioning everyone away. People mumbled, but few moved. “Move it, folks,” she said now, her
voice harsher.

Watly could see the officer’s trained eyes scanning the crowd carefully as she spoke. The cops were looking for him still. All of them. Staring at each face in the throng of people. Watly squatted down some and looked up between shoulders
and heads.

“Come on, people. Just a dead bum. That’
s all.”

She and the others waved the people away with their weapons. It was half gentle wave, half threat. Some of the crowd began to move on. Most just shuffled and mumbled louder. Watly got an idea. He got a
crazy idea.

“Back to bed now,” the cop said, pointing with her gun toward the nearby tents and apartments. A few voices were raised. “What happened?” “What’d the bum do?” “What’s
going on?”

Watly watched how the officer was using the weapon to gesticulate with more and more. He kept his eyes focused on her gun as he reached around back and slipped the chip pistol from his vest. It was cold and dry in his hands. He held it close to his body and pointed it upward—toward the First Level ceiling. The damn thing sure was heavy. Heavy and cool. He gritted his teeth and squeezed the trigger. The explosion rocked him backward with its force. His ears rang. The crowd was stunned into silence, looking for the source of the gunshot. Watly held his head down and shouted at the top of his lungs. “They mean to kill us all! It’s a massacre!” Watly squeezed the trigger again and the slug struck the daylite overhead. It exploded in a shower of sparks. The crowd was thrown into darkness.
Lucky shot
, Watly thought. There were panicked screams and shouts and the whole group began to run frantically in all directions. Bodies banged into one another. It was a crazy,
aimless stampede.

Watly joined in running with the rest, tucking the gun back into place. He was just one more wild-eyed person out of hundreds. One frantic figure among many. There was no way they could single
him out.

When he was far enough down the street to feel safe, he glanced backward. Not everyone had run, apparently. In the pandemonium, some had stayed.
Many
had stayed. Some had not been frightened by the shots—they had been angered. Bottles were flying. Shoes. Pieces of concrete. Fists arced. More gunshots echoed. Screaming rose up high and piercing. Back there in the darkness, the fighting throng became a single living angry being. Someone chanted from the sidelines, “California! California! California!”

Watly Caiper turned and ran on. He was glad to be away from the searchers, glad for the momentary safety of flight. But he was disturbed by the means. Disturbed at the death of the bum, yes.
Rape and double rape, yes. His fault.
But also disturbed by another thing. Disturbed that he, Watly Caiper, had just started.
..
a riot. Yes,
a riot.

As easy
as pie.

CHAPTER 17

W
atly made it to Narcolo’s apartment. He didn’t know how, but he made it. Nowhere else to go. He hoped it would take the police time to call up his records for his residence. Maybe a little time. A little. He had to go home, anyway, at least for a second. And he made it somehow. In hindsight he had very little memory of the trip. There was a vague recollection of stopping to rub the oily slime from a dirty puddle over his workervest to camouflage the bloodstains. There was also the memory of more running, of more hiding in the shadows, and of the gleam of dangerously close coppers in the night daylites. There was a fuzzy recollection involving the sharing of a tent with a bewildered old tenter until hurried footsteps passed by. The old man kept smiling crazily and saying something about how it must be California time. “It must be starting..
..
” There was also some dim memory about a close call near Astor Place where Watly had to pretend to be a drunken bum who kept his
face covered.

All this was a fog. All this was like some once-removed story heard long ago. The only vivid part—the only part that really stuck with him—was the thinking. Watly remembered the thinking. If a human brain was a keyboard, then this thinking was input overload. Watly had found his mind buzzing and zipping from one thought to
the next.

Why me? What’s going on here? What the hell does this mean? I didn’t
do
anything. It was the donor. It was all that crazy donor. But there was no cuff. No hosting cuff. Impossible. Removing the cuff—that’s not supposed to be possible. And I’ve got no proof. As far as the world knows, I did it; I wasn’t hosting. Nobody knows I was hosting. Except the donor. And except for
...
except for the doctor. That blond doctor. Mitterly, I think it was. Mitterly. He was in on this. If I could find him.
..
and, of course, the donor. Whoever the hell the
donor was.

And who else? Who’s on my side? No one was there. No witnesses. Narcolo knew I was going hosting but he has no proof. It’s just what I told him. He didn’t even see the assignment slip. And what about Alysess? Could she help me? Are there records somewhere? This is all crazy. The cops. The guns. They just want to kill me. I’ve committed murder, to them. And who the subs did I kill, then? The
donor
killed her—I didn’t, dammit! And.
..
and why? And who was that other one? The first woman. The drugged one the donor had had sex with—more like
raped
. Who
was she?

What am I a part of? I’ll be lucky if I can stay alive, let alone find out! This is insane. What’s this all about? If I could just.
..
if I could just get proof I was hosting—proof of what really happened—I’d be able to stop all this. But I have to stay alive. I have to stay alive to do that. Alive.

I cannot fight without hurting now. Mom. I’m fighting for
my life.

“Oh, hello there, Watly. Sorry.
..
I didn’t hear you. I guess I was.
..
sleeping, I guess. Watly—you look.
..
What happened? What are you wearing? You look all.
..
What’s the story? Kiddo? Come
sit down.”

The old man was wearing his worn red nightshirt and his face was more creased than ever with sleep lines. He led Watly to
the couch.

“Put on the CV, Uncle,”
Watly said.

“Now, now—we must talk. You look like—”

“Put the damn CV on!” Watly shouted. He was in no mood
to argue.

Uncle Narcolo cringed. He set up the machine with practiced hands and found the all-news pleat. Then he stepped back silently to watch along with Watly. The CV mist spread
upward rapidly.

...
early this morning. Authorities are still putting together the pieces of this tragedy.

We repeat: Corber Alvedine, founder and head of Alvedine Hosting Industries (the company that brings you joy on so many levels), has been brutally murdered. He was at his home offices at the time. A review of the lenses confirms that the perpetrator was one Watly Caiper. Caiper is still at large and believed to be somewhere on First Level, wearing Second Level worker clothing. He is armed and very dangerous, having already murdered two police officers and an innocent bum during his escape, as well as injuring dozens of street people. Our handsome Chancellor has called these horrible events heinous. “More heinous than many other events,” he said, and he has issued a ranking of high-priority, death-imperative to Watly Caiper. This is the top ranking possible. Anyone caught aiding or harboring the criminal is subject to full punishment—up to and including the death penalty. A reward of one million New York dollars has been set for first kill or capture.

Corber Alvedine is survived by his mate, Sentiva Alvedine. He will long be remembered as a man of foresight, vision, sexual dynamism, immense wealth, and a noble business acumen. His untimely and brutal death may make him eligible for state martyrdom. We mourn his passing. More on this lead story after a brief News Song-Singing Segment
....

Narcolo was staring at Watly, his mouth open. Watly began mumbling, “It
wasn’t
a man. What’s going on? It was a
woman
. An older woman.” He was confused. Everything was upside down. Nothing made sense.
Corber Alvedine?
He was one of the most powerful men
in Manhattan.

Narcolo backed up slightly. His voice was hoarse. “What happened, kiddo? Did you do
this thing?”

Watly stared into frightened aged eyes. “Give me a break, Uncle! It was a setup. I’ve been framed. Framed so goddamn beautifully even
I
don’t
understand it.”

“What.
..
what happened?”

“It was a setup. Don’t you understand? I was hosting. The donor did it. The donor did
it all!”

Narcolo sighed with relief. “Then you’re okay, kiddo. You’re okay. Yes. They’ll see the cuff when they
review the—”

“The donor took
off
the cuff. The donor had a way to remove the
cuff prematurely.”

“That’
s impossible.”

“That’s what
I thought.”

The CV was flashing on the image of Watly’s own face. It was unsettling to see himself floating fuzzily above them in the living room. He turned away.
Why did they say it was a man? And
Corber Alvedine
, of all men! Why the change? And they say I murdered police and the bum.
I
didn’t kill the bum—at least not directly. And the police they’re talking about must’ve been killed in the copper crash. Why are they lying like this? Bad enough what it looks like I
did
do; why the hell are they distorting it all
so much?

Watly’s uncle looked bewildered, frightened. “What’re you gonna do, kiddo?”

“First of all,” Watly said, trying to pull himself together—trying not to
think
. “First of all, I’m going to
change clothes.”

The wrinkles in Narcolo’s brow deepened. He looked like a wounded animal. “They’ll come here, Watly. They’ll come here soon. This is the first place they’ll look. You live here. It’s on record at immigration and at Alvedine. All they gotta do is call it up and they’ll know you live here. We’ve gotta get you out
of here.”

Watly was thinking narrowly now. Concentrating. “First I need clothes. I won’t last another minute
in these.”

Narcolo ran to the drawers and pulled out some worn clothing—brown shoes, anklepants, and a jersey jacket. He also found a broad-brimmed hat with
ear cups.

“Put this stuff on, Watly. Hurry.”

Watly threw off the outfit and started dressing. With his back turned he transferred the gun and the other items from the workervest to the jacket. The pockets bulged. Something clattered to the floor but Watly had no time to bother with it. Meanwhile, Narcolo filled a knapsack
for him.

“You’ll need some food, Watly. For your travels. You may not get to.
..
I’m packing a hardloaf and some dried beans. Here’s all your money, too. The bills and the untitled credits are fine. Your titled pieces are useless now. They’ve got your name all over them, kiddo. I’ll hold ‘em for you. Maybe someday—” Narcolo coughed abruptly. “And here’s that booze you bought—the unopened bottle—you might want that. Put your ear cups on, Watly. And pull them tight. Tighter—make them hurt. That pulls the skin and makes your face look a little different. Pull ‘em up tighter, Watly—that’s it. It stretches the flesh around your throat and makes you look thinner. I know it hurts but it’s worth a shot. Keep the brim tilted down.” Narcolo closed the bag and handed it to Watly. “If you get out of Manhattan, if you make it—and I’m sure you will—try to let me know. Let me know, kiddo. Try to get a message to me. I want to know you
made it.”

Watly swung the pack onto his shoulders and turned to his uncle. “I’m not
leaving
Manhattan, my friend. I’
m staying.”

“You’re crazy,” Narcolo said. He shook his head vigorously. “I just packed your—But you.
..
you can’t do that! You
can’t
! Don’t
be crazy!”

“No, no. You’re wrong, Uncle. I’d be crazy if I tried
to leave.”

His uncle almost screamed. “You’ve got to leave! The cops’ll kill you! You’ll—”

Watly held a firm hand up. “I can’t leave, old man. They’ll increase security at every exit. I’d have no chance.” Watly tightened the knapsack straps. “Even if I
could
make it, I’d have to spend the rest of my life running. This is high priority for them, you understand? They wouldn’t rest until they found me. No matter where. Whatever country. They’d track me anywhere in the UCA. I’d have to go into hiding. I don’t want that. No. I have to stay. I have to find out what’s
going on.”

“Outerworld. You’ll go to the Outerworld, kiddo. Find a way. There must be some way. They won’t follow
you there.”

“You don’t understand, Uncle!” Watly shouted at this little kid, his
son/uncle
. “I’ll never make it
out of Manhattan
if I try. I
have
to stay!”

“You’ll get killed, Watly. One false step and you’re dead. Everybody wants you. No one’ll
help you.”

Watly looked at the little man’s face. The eyes were pleading. The mouth trembling. He grabbed his uncle’s face roughly and kissed the wrinkled forehead. “Someone already has, Uncle,”
Watly said.

The old man
pulled away.

“I’ve got no choice, old friend,” Watly continued. “I can die running or I can die chasing. I’d rather chase.” He paused before going on. “I’d better get going before someone gets here. No time. I’d get rid of those clothes if I were you. I don’t want you arrested.
Or worse.”

Narcolo was bunching up the edge of his nightshirt and looked about to cry. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I’m real sorry,”
he said.

Watly rested a hand on a bony shoulder. “Not your fault,”
he said.

Before leaving, Watly took a last look back at the CV. The report continued, repeating endlessly. First there was the image of Corber Alvedine, the man Watly was supposed to have killed—a man he’d never seen before. Then the image of Watly himself—a file photo from identicard records. Finally, the frozen image of a beautiful woman with piercing green eyes. She had not
appeared before.

...
the grieving mate of Corber, the lovely Sentiva Alvedine, was unavailable for comment at this.
..

Watly recognized the face. The eyes were not familiar but the features were. The perfect nose, the high cheekbones, full lips, and slightly overpowering jawline. The green eyes were not familiar because they had always been closed. She was the woman in the bed! Sentiva Alvedine was the drugged body the donor had raped!
Okay,
Watly thought.
Okay, so let’s get this straight: somebody tricks me into hosting, gets inside my head in order to rape the drugged wife of Corber Alvedine, and then murders a woman who they now say isn’t a woman at all. They now say she is Corber herself. Manhattan mogul assassinated by the everpopular
Watly Caiper.

Watly swallowed hard, more confused than ever, and hugged his trembling
uncle goodbye.

He peered cautiously in both directions before mounting the steps. As he went quietly up onto the street his mind shifted back into overdrive and his thoughts again raced. Thinking widely. He nibbled absentmindedly on the hardloaf as he walked.
Why? Why?
What the hell is
going on?

Soon the daylites would go to full. Morning was coming. And with it, another day in the life of Watly Caiper. But nothing was the
same now.